Quiet Reminder
by BloodBlade
Summary: Somethings need not be said, but are sometimes forgotten. One-shot TezukaXFuji.


Disclaimer – Not mine; don't sue. I don't have money.

Me – Erm, yeah. Read it please? ((Looks at feet)) Yeah, I don't have anything to say anymore so you can like erm…just scroll down and read… Yeah. That's it.

Erm… Yeah. Cause I have nothing else to say, erm… Jumping off buildings is bad for you. ((Fidgets)) You can go read now. Yeah. Really, erm yeah.

He made sure the room was as immaculately clean as it was when he had first moved in.

It wasn't so much the sense of responsibility of leaving the apartment as it had been before he arrived, not even out of politeness really.

None of that, simply the reason that he was trying to erase all evidence that he had ever co-habited with the other man, erase all memory of their past relationship, because maybe if he could erase all memory of their time together. It wouldn't hurt as bad.

Fuji bent down to remove the photography magazines from the coffee table.

The magazines were dog-eared, most definitely not one of the more recent issues. He began sorting them out into two piles, the first one for magazines he chose to keep, the second one for the rest he would not.

Most of them he probably wouldn't read anyway, most of them he had bought simply to place on the glass coffee table to give off that 'lived-in' look.

Maybe even for the reason of reminding the other occupant of the apartment that Fuji was living there too.

Though the other occupant probably wasn't home enough to notice the magazines anyway. And probably wouldn't realize that the fore mentioned magazines were no longer there.

He probably wouldn't even notice the absence of the owner of the said magazines.

Fuji paused for a moment, noticing a magazine that hadn't been purchased by him. His hand wavered for a second not realizing that a magazine, not one of his own had been slipped carefully in between the worn photography magazines he had never read.

Somehow that didn't seem right. He had never read those magazines, yet they looked as though they had been flipped through more than the unfamiliar sports magazine slipped in between.

He got up leaving his sorting unfinished.

He walked through the apartment, feeling the soft carpeting beneath his cold feet. He walked towards his room, smiling at the fact that the other occupant had made sure that the place was draped in a flurry of cream colored furniture, the walls and even the nailed in carpeting he walked on.

Fuji smiled; here he was ridding the apartment of anything that would remind his partner of him and yet he was neglecting the fact that the other man had chosen to decorate their home in Fuji's favorite color.

How he failed to notice this was beyond him. Maybe it was the fact that he walked around with his eyes closed.

He returned to the living room in an attempt to work on the abandoned pile of magazines.

He took a slight glance at the messy stack of old photography magazines then again at the untouched sports magazine.

The prodigy walked towards the doorway as if his forgetting his purpose of walking out to sort the remaining magazines.

The cream carpeting felt comforting beneath his feet.

The air in the apartment felt crisp, smelt slightly of peppermint and maybe even a hint of wasabi. Fuji bent down once again, picking up the bags full of his belongings that he had left at the door.

He carried them with him and slowly walked to the scattered pile of magazines.

He sorted the magazines placing the sports magazine on top, and casually left them in a neat pile right in the middle of the coffee table.

He looked down unto the pile of magazines and was met with the view of splendidly colored brown hair, a stoic expression upon the face of the one whose face was on the cover. His captain's mouth was set hard and a cold gaze was firm on his face, as if a reminder of the moments when Fuji was not alone in the apartment.

The prodigy smiled carried his bags along with him and turned towards his room.

Thanks for reading


End file.
